


Devoted

by ToAStranger



Series: Giving Myself to You (Prompt Fills) [42]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe, BDSM, M/M, Sexual Harassment, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 12:46:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5375690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a scene, Peter leaves to get Stiles some water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devoted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheDamnRiddler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDamnRiddler/gifts).



> Prmpt: human d/s au. Peter & Stiles are at a bdsm club & after going through a scene Peter gets up to go get Stiles some water & another dom w/ bad manners comes over to take advantage of subspace Stiles & Peter comes back all "back the fuck up"

Falling in love is to become a monster.  
How else can you love  
so hungry,  
so rough,  
so devoted -  
until you fall apart?

—           _Task VI, Monster_ , R.M.

* * *

 

Stiles is still breathless.  Still shaking. 

Peter’s hands run over him.  He’s gentle, wiping the sweat away from Stiles’ face with the edge of the blanket that had been draped over the back of one of the many plush couches that lines the secluded room, curtains sheer but thick, blocking them off from the rest of the club.  Stiles leans into his touch absently, eyes going heavy as Peter cleans up the mess of come and saliva around Stiles’ mouth. 

“You were such a good boy,” Peter tells him.

The smile he gets in reply is small.  Dazed.  Fleeting. 

Peter feels a rush of heat as he recognizes the laxness of his lover’s features.  If he hadn’t just finished in the welcome heat of Stiles’ mouth, he might have gotten hard again.  Instead, he lets arousal burn in him like embers—red hot, ready to be stoked to flame given the right inspiration.  He kneels before Stiles, in an echo of the way Stiles had been on his knees for him just moments ago, and drapes the soft blanket around Stiles’ bare shoulders. 

Dragging his thumb along the swell of Stiles’ lower lip, Peter watches him for a moment.  Admires the mess he’s made of him.  Takes in that heady satisfaction that comes with sending Stiles into a place that is so blissed that his mind is lost to sensation. 

Stiles is still hard, trapped in the snug material of his jeans.  It is tempting to offer relief to that ache Peter’s sure is present, but he doesn’t want to bring Stiles down from where he’s drifting yet.  So he kisses the corner of Stiles’ mouth as ginger as he can and pulls away to go get some water for the both of them.  He parts the curtain, leaves it slightly open, and lets the steady beat of soft music fill the space while he’s gone.

When he returns, the curtain is closed again.  He frowns, pulling it aside, and stalls at the sight of another man touching what belongs to Peter and Peter alone.  There are fingers in Stiles’ hair, a mouth on Stiles’ neck, a hand slipping down, down, down a bare stomach to the bulge in Stiles’ pants.  Peter steps in, tugs the curtains shut behind him, and very nearly snarls.

He’s across the small space before the stranger can react, pulling the man away from Stiles by the short hairs on the back of his head.  Peter hauls him up, off the couch and off of his trembling lover, before landing a solid punch against the man’s jaw.  He hears something crack.  The man crumbles. 

Peter doesn’t stop.  His heavy boots make contact with ribs, and the groan the stranger makes has Peter’s lip curling up into a sneer.  There is a rage in him, a storm of it, and he feels it bleed out of his fingertips, his eyes, his mouth.  He kicks the man again.  There’s another crack.  Stiles calls out to him.

Freezing, Peter takes a deep breath.  His hands clench and unclench at his sides.  The stranger spits up blood.

“Peter,” Stiles breathes.

Peter turns.  Stiles holds out a hand to him, palm up.  Peter takes it and slides to his knees, finding space between the part of Stiles’ legs where he’s sat on the couch.  He kisses Stiles’ wrist, his palm, his fingertips. 

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” Stiles mutters, brows drawing together as he glances at the crumpled heap on the floor behind Peter.  “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Peter tells him, tone firm, hands framing Stiles’ face.  “I’m sorry he ruined your moment.”

Stiles’ eyes flutter, his long fingers curl loose around Peter’s wrists.  “Was I good?”

“Very,” Peter smiles and kisses him.  “You were perfect.”

There is a pleased flush on Stiles’ cheeks when Peter draws back enough to look at him.  Peter hums, kissing him again and earning a sweet keen.  He can taste himself in Stiles’ mouth, and it sends a thrill rushing under Peter’s skin. 

“We should go home,” Stiles says.

“Would you like me to take care of you first?”

Stiles’ eyes dart to the man and back again.  “I’d rather wait.”

Peter’s nod is grim.  He helps Stiles up onto his feet, hands firm where Stiles is unsteady, and he guides him from the room.  They leave the stranger there, but Peter tells the bouncer about him on their way out the door.

On the way back to their apartment, Stiles holds Peter’s hand, their fingers laced.  He kisses Peter’s bruised knuckles, and Peter knows it means adoration.  It means love.  Peter squeezes Stiles’ fingers and smiles.


End file.
